


rose

by youriko



Category: K-pop, TWICE (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Art School, F/F, Fluff, procrastinating on my creative writing homework by creatively writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 00:57:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18728431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youriko/pseuds/youriko
Summary: sana is self-righteous, but only in the moment.





	rose

**Author's Note:**

> bro look who wrote sachaeng again. 
> 
> i wanted to write and this weird au came up in my head and i was like. Okay i guess. freak
> 
> follow me on twt: @gayratio  
> tumblr: @lesbianistics

“who drew this?”

 

sana’s friends stop laughing, turning to see sana’s back, a black, leather shadow against a pink canvas. she’s still, apparently looking at the artwork, and she doesn’t crack a joke after a brief pause, either.  _ she’s waiting for an answer _ , they realize.

 

“your mom,” one of them jokes, and the group gives half hearted chuckles, still staring at sana who is decidedly staring at something else.

 

sana ignores that comment; she should’ve known they wouldn’t give her a straight answer, let alone _ know _ it, and she can’t blame them for something that’s her fault entirely; and continues to admire the work. she lets her eyes follow each careful brushstroke. most of the work is pink, though some lines are darker, more defined, and others are whimsical, barely visible against the white background. the paint tells her not to look at the piece as a whole, but to reach into every corner, every drop of color, and watch it all come together into a–

 

“It’s called  _ rose _ ,” an unfamiliar voice tells her. sana almost doesn’t question it.

 

“how imaginative,” she retorts, and the girls behind her predictably giggle in response. 

 

“the artist wasn’t focusing on the title, i suppose,” the voice says. “the point of artwork is the art.”

 

“to a certain point,” she admits, “but it has to be somewhat memorable. i like the work, yes, but i’m not going to look it up when i get home or anything. i’m not going to be able to find it. something like that is destined to be forgotten, isn’t it?”

 

“you assume the artist cares about all that,” they reply, barely a moment between the last syllable of sana’s sentence and the beginning of theirs. “maybe they don’t want you to look at it for too long. maybe they want you to see it here, and now, and leave it at the door when you leave. or maybe, the title means something to her. art is, with few exceptions, for the artist.”

 

sana gazes at the rose for a few more moments, before turning to the voice. she’s young, maybe her age. blonde, not her own dirty blonde, but a color that reminds her of easter and child-drawn suns. her face is dotted with moles and acne. it doesn’t take away from her beauty.

 

“her?” sana asks.

 

the girl raises an eyebrow, still focusing on the painting. “what?”

 

“you said her,” sana tells her. “in reference to the artist. who is she?”

 

her lips quirk up in response. “son chaeyoung,” she answers. “she goes to a private art school here in seoul. she won a competition to get in with one of her works a few years back. she’s a prodigy, you know?”

 

sana rolls her eyes. “i’m not exactly moved by backstories, especially of the non-tragic variety.”

 

“son chaeyoung,” the girl repeats, swiveling to face sana. “pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  
  
  
  
  


sana is a little bit intrigued.

 

she’s intrigued enough to tell her friends she’s going to go to the bathroom and walk in the opposite way, blatantly ignoring the calls that tell her just that. she’s intrigued enough to follow chaeyoung a few dozen paces back like some sort of stalker, weaving between traffic, pedestrian and vehicular alike. her mind is locked onto one point; the beacon of fluffy blonde hair, bobbing in and out of view.

 

despite her declaration of emotionlessness she gave to her mother and father in the seventh grade, she can’t help but feel a little bit  _ bad _ . sure, she’s crude and mean and icy and unapologetic for it, but only to the people who deserve it. as skewed as her moral compass is, she does have one, and she can’t have the hurt feelings of a cute girl on her conscience.

 

a minute or two later finds chaeyoung taking two steps at a time down into the subway. sana, unfortunately impulsive, follows without reading the signs or station number. 

 

a minute or two after that finds sana a few dollars poorer, standing across the more or less empty train car from one glaring ‘son chaeyoung’.

 

“girls like you,” chaeyoung states, “are bound to get shot.”

 

sana lets out exactly one ‘ha’. “haven’t yet.”

 

“that’s what everyone who hasn’t gotten shot yet says,” chaeyoung tells her matter-of-factly. “it’s only a matter of time for you and your crew. what, did you come to make fun of the art artists pour their soul into? is that what makes you cool?”

 

the rumble of the train on the tracks is accompanied only by silence for awhile after that. sana can’t come up with a good comeback, and chaeyoung aggressively throws in both her earplugs, and sana figures she deserves that but it still hurts her feelings, if only a little bit.

 

“um,” sana begins, “i’m not very good at apologizing.”

 

chaeyoung doesn’t acknowledge her.

 

“but, uh, you’re owed one.”

 

chaeyoung’s eyebrow raises, and it’s hauntingly familiar.

 

“i’m an asshole.”

 

“stating facts doesn’t get you forgiveness,” chaeyoung says. sana realizes she must not be playing music in her ears.

 

“i just,” sana continues, “didn’t know how to criticize the painting. i’m usually very good at that stuff, so it kind of struck me. the name was the lowest hanging fruit. i,” she gulps, “don’t think before i talk.

 

“it was uncomfortable. the painting told me how to look at it. i didn’t have any power over myself, and that’s, uh, really scary to me?”

 

chaeyoung, again, doesn’t answer. this time, it feels more like a nod to go on then ignorance.

 

“so, i lashed out. in a minor way. it’s what i do best, nowadays, trying to keep all the big, disastrous actions inside me. trying to leave my junior year self behind, along with all those asshole friends, just so you know.”

 

chaeyoung watches the digital sign, reading the name of her neighborhood over and over again. “i began the piece with the name, rather than the painting. i wanted to honor my art teacher. she loved roses.” her breath releases, blowing out a steady stream of smoky vapor. “i went over to her house once, and there was at least one rose in every room. she said that everyone has that seemingly insignificant object that brightened their day. she was kind of mine, though less insignificant and less object. she was stabbed by her fiance forty-three times in the chest.”

 

“you didn’t have to tell me that,” sana says. 

 

chaeyoung shrugs. “you told me something personal. i felt like i owed you. plus,” she adds when she senses sana’s incoming protest, “i prefer telling strangers about personal issues. it’s easier, when i don’t care that much about their opinions.”

 

sana laughs. “where has that logic gotten you?”

 

chaeyoung laughs in return. “none of your business. we’re strangers, aren’t we?”

 

they laugh until their stomachs hurt in that almost empty subway car, tears trickling from their eyes over something that’s really not that funny at all. the train tracks groan in protest while the car rattles over them.

 

“hey,” sana offers, a little bit breathless. “let’s be not-strangers.”

 

“enemies? friends? lovers?” chaeyoung questions, as if that’s the most confusing thing about sana’s statement.

 

“we’ll figure it out on the way,” sana tells her.

 

strangely, chaeyoung gives sana her real phone number when it’s time for her to get off, and her phone charger when sana realizes she has no clue where she is and her phone is dead. stranger still, chaeyoung can’t help but hope for more.

**Author's Note:**

> i had a 5 hour shift today that's my excuse. take this


End file.
